I’ve Never Told Anyone Before
by Liana Goldenquill
Summary: Lark claimed to have grown up in a troupe of acrobats—but that was only the _second_ half of her adolescence. What came before has always been a secret, until she receives a letter from her past, and has to tell the only person she trusts. L/R shoujo
1. Letter from the Past

**_Disclaimer!  Warning!_**

**_PG-13-rated shoujo ai, also known as female/female slash, lies ahead in this story._**

**_If you object to this, please read no further, and please do not flame, because it will be to no purpose._**

**_Thank you._**

****

**Most characters and most places in this fanfic belong to Tamora Pierce, and are detailed in her _Circle of Magic_ books.  I am making no money from this venture at all.**

**It would be easier for me just to point out what's mine: the girl Sweetbee; Lark's childhood (other than being taken in by an acrobat troupe; her parents; her town, and several of the towns the troupe travels through; the local justice system & prejudices; Norlina, the Worshipper, and the Justice; the customs relating to the Worshipper, the Justice, and local justice.**

**Also, the plot is mine, and all writing appearing below this notice is copyright **

**© Liana Goldenquill 2001.**

**Please do not use, even embodied in critical reviews, without contacting me at hermionegranger@harrypotterrealm.zzn.com and getting my express approval.  Thank you again.**

It was a perfectly pleasant domestic scene.   One woman—Lark—was in the weaving room, making a light blanket—now, it wasn't more bandages for the Water temple; it had been a peaceful Indian summer—emphasis on _peaceful_, for once—turning gently into fall.  Another, Rosethorn, was in the kitchen, shelling peas she'd grown.  Their four students, who lived with them at Discipline Cottage, were off somewhere, scattered around the Circles. 

Briar, the plant-mage, and Rosethorn's student, was no doubt up to his usual wild tricks—likely annoying Disciple Crane in his greenhouse, probably pestering the tomato-grower for helpful potions to give to his _shakkan_, his miniature tree, which he loved quite probably more than anything else.  _And because of it, he's always willing to harness his powers so he can help it more—then I force him to help with other plants.  I would've had to steal the_ shakkan_ from Crane myself if he hadn't_, Rosethorn realized, and grinned.  _It—and his friendship with the others—have made him so much more tractable than he was at first._

Sandry, a weaving-mage and Lark's student, would probably be found helping other students learn to weave.  The summer, she'd grown to like that task, for its soothing properties and its ability to help others.  Her students—although Sandry was no more than fourteen herself—were often from the Water temple, and looked up to her outrageously, simply because she spun, knit, or wove faster than anyone they'd seen.  Rosethorn would have laid money that the students' dog, named Little Bear, was accompanying Sandry—he, too, admired her.  _Better make sure she's not getting a swelled head_, Rosethorn reminded herself, _not that that's too likely near Briar.  Still, with plenty of people esteeming her too highly, it _is _possible.  We're all vulnerable to pride._

Tris was an extremely powerful weather-mage, the student of the famous mage Niklaren Goldeneye; she was most likely somewhere she could see the sea and sky, hard at practice with him.  Both women knew she would come back squinting through salt-sprayed glasses, running her hands through clouds of impossibly-tangled hair, and definitely needing to bathe and change her clothes into another utilitarian set.  _Poor plump Tris_, thought Rosethorn,_ she manages to get dirtier even than Daja, and she hates being dirty and cleaning up almost to the same extent—and I wonder if anyone else besides me and Lark can see that wonderful bone structure beneath Tris's face?  She's going to be lovely when she stretches upward more and thins out._

Daja, the last of the group, and from Trader-stock, was a fire-mage, although her gift manifested in blacksmithing and rocks.  A student of the powerful blacksmith Frostpine, she was probably hard at work making boring nails, for practice.   _She works very hard for her skills,_ Rosethorn acknowledged, _but we all do, and the four students quite probably work the hardest of the whole Circle for their power.  Practice, practice, practice—and they almost hate us for it—but oh, gods, they will thank us one day!_

All of the student's studies or jobs—thinly disguised as errands—were completely understandable and perfectly acceptable, as today was a rest-day; however, it left Lark and Rosethorn alone together in Discipline Cottage.  Neither woman minded—they were old friends, and had shared their space even before the quartet came—but they didn't mind solitude, either; each currently worked quietly in separate rooms for greater efficiency and space.  

Then Lark entered the kitchen—but something was amiss.  Her eyes were puffy and red from weeping.  Pretending to be nonchalant, she sauntered over to get a cup of tea from the kettle kept brewing.  

Still, Rosethorn's sharp eyes, able to tell a two-day-old pea vine from a weed, noted, and Rosethorn, sensitive to her friend's needs, stood up instantly, knowing that something was wrong with her fellow-teacher—she would have known even without the face stained by tear-tracks and red, puffy eyes.  "Lark!" she exclaimed, very concerned. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," Lark answered, closing her eyes for a second as she attempted to pass it off hastily.  "It's just before my moon-days—you know how I get tempery sometimes—"

But Rosethorn did not know—or, actually, she knew the reverse.  She knew that she herself was prickly by nature, usually more so because of moon-days, but the even-tempered Lark never got upset, angry, or weepy.  Not before, during, or after her moon-days, or at any other time.   "No," Rosethorn answered firmly, "you're not—and if moon-days have any bearing on this, it's mere coincidence.  We both know that that's not it—so, Lark, what's bothering you?"

Lark sniffed sadly and sat down at the table.  "I—I—"

"Lark, you _know_ that I'm your friend." _If only I were—if I were_ more_, somehow. . . .  _"I'd never repeat anything you asked me not to; you know that, right?"  When Lark nodded to her, Rosethorn continued.  "Well, then, you can answer me safely, if you wish.  Why do you weep, friend?"

"I—well, I'm not sure I can tell you," Lark whispered.  "I know that this sounds awfully juvenile, Rosethorn, but please believe me, I've—I've never told anyone before, and it's v-very important.  T-to me, at any rate."

Rosethorn moved her chair closer to Lark's and stretched her arm over Lark's shoulders, biting her lip.  _Am I getting too close to her? Will she suspect that—?_   "You don't have to tell me," she said gently, not daring to look upon Lark's face, but keeping her gaze on the fine grain of the wooden table, "but I would be honored to think that you trusted me enough to bring your troubles to me, just as I do to you.  And I recommend that you bring this out into the open, but as you know, I will never force you."  _In more ways than one.  Oh, poor sweet Lark, no matter what has tugged your heartstrings asunder, know that you are always safe with me!_

Then Lark burst out in tears.  "Oh, Rosethorn!" she sobbed.  

"Oh, Lark, it's all right.  I'm here and the children aren't.  Cry if you need to, Lark; come on, let it all out," whispered Rosethorn, finally gathering the courage to cradle her friend in her strong arms and rock her back and forth. 

Rosethorn knew that she was good at cosseting plants, but she'd never been much of a one for humans . . . except for Lark, her one friend and ally, her co-house-mother.  Lark had always been a firm, steady rock in the past when Rosethorn had had problems, but now that rock was sagging; Rosethorn knew it was her turn to steady Lark, for once, although she didn't know exactly how.  _She _needs_ me.  She really _needs_ me now. If she needs me to be her friend, then that's all I'll be, but I must admit—_

"Rosethorn," Lark stammered out between tears, "I have to tell you."

"The trouble's waited at least a month, friend," said Rosethorn calmly, finding the nerve to stroke Lark's hair, "a few minutes more will harm nobody."

Lark was shocked.  "A—a month!  But—how did you know a month?"

Rosethorn gazed steadily at Lark, trying not to let her true feelings show.  "You're my _friend_, Lark; I _live_ with you.  How could you hide anything from me?  How could I _not_ know?  Something has obviously been bothering you, but I knew you'd tell me when you needed to.  And you need to, now, so go ahead."

"I do, I do need to," said Lark, still crying. "I got a letter from my mother!"

Rosethorn sat, utterly mystified, as Lark redoubled her tears.  "Why is _that_ a problem?"  _Oh, no!  Did I sound insensitive to her worries?—oh, I'm so bad with people, I don't deserve—  Because her problems are real, no doubt about that, I've never seen her upset; but—a letter from her _mother_ upsets her?  What is going on here?  Besides, I thought she _had_ no mother but the—_

"You remember how I grew up?  Well—how I _told _you I grew up?" corrected Lark, drying her eyes and letting the crying slack off slightly in favor of speaking.

"In an acrobat troupe, yes?"  Rosethorn passed Lark a handkerchief, firmly commanding her to "Blow."

"Well," began Lark, using the handkerchief, "that wasn't _quite_ accurate.  Well, to be precise, I didn't start off that way, at any rate. . . .  

"I was born in a tiny, quiet village, far off from any important place, or even from any place with as much as fifty people.  By the time I was fourteen, I'd still never been outside the town limits.  The most 'exotic' and exciting thing I ever saw was a traveling troupe of acrobats that came by every other summer.  The winter when I had just turned fourteen, my parents began talking about getting me married off—a girl-child was useless until she was married, and they had had plenty of other children besides.  Oh—they loved me, they loved us all; but when it's that cramped, and food's that stretched, _somebody_ has to go.  And I could be married off easily, they thought.  But for my sake, because I pled, they held off the marriage negotiations past the winter I was fourteen, then past the spring.

"You see, I begged because the only problem was that I was already 'sparking' with someone—courting; that's what we called it where I was from.  Oh, we'd kissed, but we didn't—ah—go much farther.  My virginity was intact . . . and there was no possible way I was pregnant; I knew that, young as I was.  

"But my parents didn't even know that I was being courted—I'd always told them that I was going for a drive with the carriage and a few friends.  Finally, in early summer, they found out rather dramatically.

"Since my parents hadn't yet put forward a candidate for my marriage, I expected that I'd get to choose, and that the two of us would marry each other—I'd just proposed, and I thought I'd received a 'yes.'  But it didn't quite work out that way.  Because the girl I loved—"

Rosethorn gasped audibly, then apologized.  "I'm sorry, Lark, please continue."  Her inner thoughts were in turmoil.  _She said—no, she _can't_ mean—she's surely not—?  _Is_ she?  But if—that would mean—_

Lark sadly shook her head, as the tears threatened to spill over again.  "That was my parents' problem, too.  And—well—the rest of the community wasn't exactly thrilled either, you could say. . . ."


	2. Who—Us?

**_Disclaimer!  Warning!_**

**_PG-13-rated shoujo ai, also known as female/female slash, lies ahead in this story._**

**_If you object to this, please read no further, and please do not flame, because it will be to no purpose._**

**_Thank you._**

****

**Most characters and most places in this fanfic belong to Tamora Pierce, and are detailed in her _Circle of Magic_ books.  I am making no money from this venture at all.**

**It would be easier for me just to point out what's mine: the girl Sweetbee; Lark's childhood (other than being taken in by an acrobat troupe; her parents; her town, and several of the towns the troupe travels through; the local justice system & prejudices; Norlina, the Worshipper, and the Justice; the customs relating to the Worshipper, the Justice, and local justice.**

**Also, the plot is mine, and all writing appearing below this notice is copyright **

**© Liana Goldenquill 2001.**

**Please do not use, even embodied in critical reviews, without contacting me at hermionegranger@harrypotterrealm.zzn.com and getting my express approval.  Thank you again.**

Fourteen-year-old Lark slapped the horse's reins, urging it to go slightly faster. The young Lark simply couldn't wait to reach the shady grove she knew of. Even if the small cart bumped on the rutted dirt road, what did she care?  Sweetbee was beside her, holding her hand and smiling!

At last the cart pulled off the road and into the deep woods. When the gaps between the trees were so small that the cart couldn't fit, they stopped and disembarked, Lark carrying the picnic lunch she'd brought.

They spread the feast out under a nearby tree and ate together, the sorts of foods that have been used for picnics since the dawn of time. At last they finished, and Lark packed up the remnants, smiling shyly at Sweetbee.

"How is your family?" she asked cautiously.

"Well," Sweetbee replied, swinging her beautiful, waist-length, honey-colored hair back over one shoulder. "And yours?"

"Oh, all right," Lark answered hastily, and tucked a loose curl of her short, dark-brown hair behind an ear.  Then Lark promptly ran out of things to say.

"So—they didn't find out about _us_ yet?" Sweetbee asked, making it sound dirty.

_How can this be dirty or wrong? _Lark wanted to cry out.  _We love each other—I see no problem in that! I just haven't told my family—well—because I didn't want to yet.  I want some kind of commitment between Sweetbee and me before I tell them, or they'll say it's just calf love and they'll never let us marry._  "Well—no, they didn't," she responded at last. "Yours?"

"Not a clue!" Sweetbee giggled, sounding like wind in delicate silver bells.  "Of course, all I have is one crazy old aunt—you know that.  She lets me do as I like . . . and I like you!"

Lark was charmed—but again, at a loss for conversation. 

"How much do you like me?" asked Sweetbee finally.  "A lot?"

"Oh, an awful lot!" responded Lark instantly.  She hesitated, then, too timid to say what she really felt.  "I think—I might even love you."

Sweetbee was touched.  Lark could see it in Sweetbee's deep brown eyes at once.  "Oh, _Lark_," she breathed. "You're so—"  But Sweetbee didn't know how to finish, and Lark was too shy to suggest any adjectives.  "So—naïve, I guess," Sweetbee finally concluded.

Lark didn't know what that meant.  _How did Sweetbee get to know all of these things,_ she wondered, _when, at sixteen, she's only two years older than I am?_  _I know it's not the village school, because I've finished that too!  _She hoped that her stupidity wouldn't show in her face.

"How much do you like me?"  Lark asked tentatively, at some length.

"You're wonderful, Lark," said Sweetbee with her warm, slow smile that seemed to melt across her face just like it melted Lark's insides.

"Wow," breathed Lark inaudibly.

"You're just—I've never known anyone like you," continued Sweetbee.  "You're so innocent; you don't even know about. . . ."

"About. . . ?" asked Lark, curious as always.  _So my brothers say I'm as curious as a kitten, poking into things—well, that can be useful sometimes.  How could you find anything out if you didn't dare to ask?_

"About, well, anything, I guess," Sweetbee answered, but Lark could tell she was hedging.

Still, Lark bravely continued.  "Because I was wondering. . . ."  She couldn't look at Sweetbee.  " . . . Well, my parents are thinking about maybe getting me married, and. . . ."

Sweetbee looked horrified.  Her smile vanished, and her hand flew to her mouth.  "Lark! Married?  But that's not for—you can't—we're—"

Lark hunched her shoulders and tried to push on.  If only she could finish, she could make Sweetbee see her side, she _knew_ she could.  "They want the best for me . . . and of course they don't know about the two of us.  So I was thinking—"  Lark took a deep breath and plunged into the home stretch—"if I told them about us—I'm sure they want me to be happy—if I told them about us, I'm sure they'd let us get married."  Lark looked up at Sweetbee through her dark eyelashes and low fringe of curly hair.  "Do you think—?"

But Sweetbee still looked terrified and unhappy.  At last she rid her face of the expression with the utmost effort.  "You listen to me, Lark," she said firmly, with an expression Lark had never before seen on Sweetbee's lovely visage—anger, and misery.  "That's awfully sweet of you, but you just can't do that.  You have to promise me you'll never, ever tell anyone about that, as long as you live!  Understand?"

Terrified of her usually gentle girlfriend, Lark nodded.  "Yes, Sweetbee, I promise.  I'll never tell anyone if that's how you want it, but I don't understand why—"

"You don't need to understand," Sweetbee snapped harshly. "Just promise me!"

"I did! I mean, I do!  Oh, Sweetbee, just tell me _why_!"

Then the angry and miserable expression melted off of Sweetbee's face like hard winter snow in the spring rain.  It was replaced by a thrilled, joyful expression, even more jubilant than her usual.  "Now, Lark, did I understand correctly that you just proposed marriage to me?"

"Yes, I did," replied Lark instantly.  _Oh please, oh please, oh please—Sweetbee, I need you, I love you so much—!_

Sweetbee's smile melted across her face once more.  "You are the dearest, sweetest, most lovable, most innocent, most naïve young woman I know—and I love you, Lark!"

"I love you too, Sweetbee!" exclaimed Lark, thrilled to her very core. _ Does this mean she'll marry me?_

"Come here, Lark," said Sweetbee firmly, "and give me a kiss."  Lark obeyed happily, with her full concentration.

Kissing was nothing new to either of them, although Sweetbee was the only person Lark had ever kissed.  In late autumn and throughout the winter they'd been kissing each other, with varying degrees of intensity—ever since Sweetbee had first approached Lark.  But this was the first time that Lark had ever been kissed like _this_!

When Sweetbee gently pushed her tongue into the younger girl's mouth, Lark tried to gasp.

"Ssh, now," Sweetbee said soothingly, as well as she could with her mouth occupied.  "Do you want me to stop?"

Lark didn't know what to do.  Say 'no'?  Shake her head?  At last she settled for making a muffled sort of negative noise, and leaned into the kiss.  _This is incredible—amazing!  Sweetbee is so—! And I'm hers—we'll be married, I'm sure this is a 'yes'! I'm so happy!_

It wasn't long until Sweetbee's hand found the way to Lark's breast.  Lark gasped, but found that she actually enjoyed the sensation that was sending ripples of delight through her body.

An unknown period of time later, Lark and her would-be lover were entirely wrapped up in each other.  So absorbed, in fact, that they didn't even notice when Norlina, the plump proprietor of the town's small general store, stepped around the side of the cart.

Norlina's eyes widened, and she gasped loudly.  Lark and Sweetbee were surprised by the sudden noise, and they straightened to sitting positions, letting go of one another.  Lark, terrified by Norlina's wrath, cowered behind Sweetbee, who leaned across her as if to protect her.

Norlina looked horrified, and angry besides.  "Girls!" she exclaimed, furious. "How—what _is_ this?  _Sweetbee_!  I knew you were . . . '_wrong_,' but I never thought you'd _actually_—!"  Norlina reached down and pulled Sweetbee aside to see who was hidden behind her.  

"Lark! _You_?! You're the daughter of Matheu and Sena—I never thought you could _do _such a thing!  Oh—wait until your _parents_ find out!  This is just—I never thought I'd live to see the day!  How _disgusting_—!"  Gingerly Norlina reached down and took a grip of their forearms, pulling them up.

Sweetbee brushed her honey-hair behind her ear with her left hand—the one Norlina wasn't tugging—and planted her feet defiantly.  "I'm _not_ guilty," she declared forcefully, "because I _haven't_ done anything _wrong_! We're not 'disgusting,' Norlina—we're in _love_!"  Her brown eyes, usually warm and placid, spit sparks at the meddling neighbor.

Norlina, angrier than ever, dropped Lark's arm to slap Sweetbee with her right hand and all of her force.  Sweetbee, unable to help herself, flinched from the pain in her cheek.  Norlina's hand left a red mark on Sweetbee's perfect complexion, a red palm-shaped mark that was rapidly spreading.  But Sweetbee's eyes weren't on Norlina, and Sweetbee's mind wasn't on her own pain.  Sweetbee was staring at Lark.

"_Go_," she mouthed, looking scared now.  Lark was all but hidden behind Norlina, who had dropped Lark's arm before turning to strike Sweetbee.

Lark raised her eyebrows in incomprehension, more terrified than she'd ever been before.  What had gone wrong?  A few minutes ago, she was the happiest she'd ever been—interesting feelings all over her body, and going to marry Sweetbee—and now Norlina had stormed into them, and everything was all _wrong_!  It felt—and Lark didn't know why—it felt as though everything, absolutely everything, was ruined, crumpled on the ground.  Lark felt like she would burst into tears any second.

But Sweetbee had to be saying something important, or she wouldn't have bothered. Lark bit her lip.  "Sweetbee, what should I do?" she whispered, hoping she'd hear her.

Sweetbee's face grew pale, and she began to bite her coral-pink lips, as Norlina launched into a tirade, screaming at Sweetbee.

"No _wonder _the crops haven't been growing, the rain hasn't been coming," Lark could hear Norlina yell.  " . . . the gods and the magic have been punishing us for letting you two keep living—if I'd known, if we'd heard, if the pair of you hadn't been sneaking out, ashamed even of yourselves, you _wouldn't_ still be alive, be sure of that—you're _disgusting_!  A mockery of what things are _supposed_ to be . . . you're twisted,_ both_ of you, you most of all, Sweetbee!  You should have been married long since—corrupting innocent, _good_ girls. . . ."  Since the majority of Norlina's wrath was directed at Sweetbee, Lark couldn't hear all of it.

But when Sweetbee hissed "_Run_!" urgently, and jerked her head in the direction behind Lark, Lark heard that, and she knew what it meant.  She had to escape, but why did Sweetbee want her to leave?

A tear welled out of each eye, and she bit her lip.  _How can I leave Sweetbee to face the town gossip alone—and why should she, anyway?  What's she done wrong?  Maybe if I stay, I can explain to them about us—how we weren't exactly misbehaving, that we love each other and we're going to marry._

But some of Lark's thoughts must have shown on her face, because Sweetbee violently shook her head.  "No, Lark, there's no hope, you've got to run. As far as you can! Promise!" she hissed.  A tear left Sweetbee's big brown eye, dropping silently to the forest floor.

"I promise," Lark mouthed quickly, noiselessly.

"I love you, Lark," Sweetbee whispered quietly, "and if things had been different, who knows?"

Norlina was so engrossed in berating Sweetbee that she didn't even notice when Lark whispered, "I love you too, Sweetbee, but everything will be all right—you'll see!" 

And Norlina didn't notice when Lark silently crept backward, into the dense bushes and behind a tree.  Once she was out of eyeshot, Lark ran, panting heavily with a stitch in her side, and thinking furiously.

_What have we done to be yelled at?  What can I do?  Sweetbee told me to run far away—and I promised—but I can't leave her without any help.  She needs me!  All along I've needed her, and now she needs me; how can I let her down?  I can't!  But I can't break the promise I made to her, either!_

At last, exhausted, and several miles from where she and Sweetbee had been caught, Lark tripped over a root and fell. Whimpering with fatigue, she revived enough to crawl over into some bushes, and couldn't muster the strength to get up again.

She managed to pull herself deep under the bushes, then lay until nightfall.  Brief thoughts about the horse and carriage crossed her mind, but they were far more heavily outweighed by her concerns for Sweetbee.  _If Mother and Father find out that I left the horse and cart alone, whatever I get in trouble for being caught kissing would be nothing compared!  They'd be so disappointed in me, and I'd lose all of my responsibilities!  But oh, I hope Sweetbee's all right!  I wish Norlina had never come by!  Why does the fat old busybody have to butt into my business?  …At least she'll take the horse and cart home to Mother and Father. . . . _and, doubts slightly assuaged, Lark fell deep into sleep.

When she woke up, it was early morning, just dawn, and birds were twittering in the trees around her.  Lark stood up with a sleepy yawn, blinking the last of sleep from her heavy eyelids.  For a split second, she wondered, _Why was I sleeping in the woods?_  Then it all came back to her—she and Sweetbee were caught, and Sweetbee had been taken back to be punished for kissing Lark.  Or something, anyway.  Lark still didn't quite understand just what they'd done—or why they shouldn't have been kissing—weren't they betrothed?  _Though_, she acknowledged, _there's no way Norlina could've known that yet.  So maybe she thinks she was right to stop us from kissing.  But in that case, why didn't Sweetbee have me stay around to explain?_

Lark reasoned that it was vital that she get back to the village as soon as possible, to explain what had happened so nobody would get in trouble.  Sighing and stretching, she looked around at the forest to see if she could recognize landmarks to find her way back.  Lark soon realized that she was entirely lost.  "Why, I don't even know the way I came!" she murmured to herself, then discovered that this wasn't really true.

Scrapes along the left of the bushes showed that she had come that way, tripping over _that_ protruding root.  "No problem," she thought aloud, "I can follow my trail back the way I came."  With that relatively cheerful thought, Lark set off to the left, knowing she'd soon be fine—she, just like the rest of the village, could follow game trails as well as humans' tracks.

A few miles and hours later, she realized that she'd nearly reached the place where she'd left the horse and cart, where Norlina had found them.  Gingerly, she stepped into the clearing where she and Sweetbee had picnicked, and gasped.

The clearing no longer existed.  Sometime last evening or this morning, it had been swept with fire, blackening the young trees and destroying the beautiful flowers.  The ground was charred ash; the soft, matted grass had been burnt away.  Lark sank to her knees, choking back a sob.  This had been a very special place to her, and not just because she and Sweetbee had trysted there.  For as long as she could remember, she'd snuck off here as her secret place of choice—it was only very recently she'd realized it made an excellent lovers' glen.

When Lark finally rose to her feet, the ash was deluged with her tears.  At least, though, Lark had now found the dirt road just wide enough for the cart (but she didn't find her horse or her carriage), and she'd managed from that to get to the road.  She was wise enough to stay off to the side, in the woods—any townsperson coming now would feel it was their duty to catch her, her and Sweetbee. . . . 

_I hope she's all right,_ repeated continuously in Lark's mind as she drew closer to the loose outskirts of the village.  When at last the road forked, she chose the left path to continue to her family's home.  _Mother and Father will be awfully angry with me, for kissing and being caught and running away, but after they've scolded me, I'm sure they'll take me back._  She realized with some misgivings that there might be a real punishment in store for her, and not just a scolding.  _Kissing, and not even married—yes, we _were_ betrothed, but nobody knew it, and even then, you don't—well, you don't touch each other like Sweetbee was touching me.  Yes, and you _liked_ it, Lark!  Worse yet, you ran and let Sweetbee be caught, and they'll see it as cowardice—well, it _was_. . . ._

Finally Lark could see her family's cleared fields in the distance, but they looked awfully odd, and not like she'd remembered them.  The pasture where the sheep were usually kept was empty—there were no white puffs in it, and none of the usual occasional black puffs, either.

Lark reached the edge of the woods, and walked over to where the wooden split-rail fence changed, distinguishing the horses' smooth-trimmed corral from the sheep's verdant pasture.  Hanging over the horses' fence, she whistled her special whistle.  If Daisy was in the corral, she would come running across the fields, even if she couldn't see Lark.

The young girl waited, but couldn't see any horses coming, not even Daisy, who always, _always_ ran to the whistle—and if she was locked up in the barn, she would've whinnied, she always did.  _This is so very odd.  Where could all of the horses be?_  Getting an odd feeling in her midsection, she continued to her left, passing the horses' corral to get to some of the fields, where they grew vegetables and the occasional wildflower.

The field was empty.  More than empty.  The beautiful, lush green corn plants that Lark had seen yesterday no longer existed.  They'd been cruelly ripped from their underground safety, and were thrown, wilting in the sun, on a yellowing pile.  "No!" cried Lark.  What, by the gods, had _happened_?  _My family's crops—this was all of our money, really!  Where did the crops go?  More importantly, why?_

The field was all upturned, showing rich brown loam.  But now there were small white grains in it.  _It's not—is it salt?  But why?  Didn't they know it would kill the ground for years to come?  Oh, the poor, poor plants!  The poor, poor ground!_

Lark stretched a hand out to the wilting heap, so unceremoniously dumped in a corner of the field, then abruptly fainted.  _It—it feels like my brain's being pulled out through my arm . . . oh, _ouch_!_

When she regained her consciousness, it was later.  _How much later?_  It looked to be the same approximate time of day, but was it the same day, or the day after?  Lark took stock.  She was a tiny bit stiff, but not as though she'd slept crumpled on the hard ground.  She was hungry, as she'd been before, but not as hungry as though she'd slept for a week.

Lark, wondering what it had been, cast her eye in the direction of the plants' heap . . . which no longer existed.  Somehow, all the plants looked green-flushed and healthy.  Furthermore, no roots were exposed anymore—they'd dug down past each other to find footholds.  Dizzily, Lark shook her head.  _That can't happen, obviously.  I must have mis-seen before. . . ._

Quietly, cautiously, she continued on toward her house, not straying from the skirt of the woods.

Her house, a modest single-floor dwelling, large enough for herself, her siblings, mother, and father, was built of the locally plentiful wood, as was everything inside.  Lark held her breath before pushing the door open, praying to the gods that someone—even if they yelled at her—would be here to explain the horses and the fields.

She didn't smell cooking inside, and she didn't hear people.  Could it be that the house was empty, too?  Lark entered slowly, door creaking, and the house _was_ empty.  Not just empty as in "not containing people," but empty as in "bare."  There was no stove in the kitchen, no table, and even her mother's hard clay dishes had been removed.  The chairs to pull to the table were gone, too, and the cabinets.  She couldn't stifle a gasp, having never seen the house without furnishings.

In her parents' room, the tale was the same.  Bed, mattress, ticking, shelves, chair . . . all were gone—and so were they in the rooms her siblings still at home shared.  Lark went, next, to the room that she shared with two of her younger sisters.  It, surprisingly, was the exception to the tale, being completely full and exactly as she'd left it—but her sisters' belongings were as vanished as anyone else's.  The bed that Lark had shared with them was still in the room, and so were the other furnishings held in common, but her sisters' own personal possessions were nowhere to be found.

"Mother?  Father?" Lark called out, but there was no answer.

Determined to find them, Lark knew that if they were not at home, they were doubtless in the village—perhaps on an infrequent shopping trip.  When she found them, they could explain the house . . . and the horses and sheep . . . and crops.  Lark hoped.  Returning to her room, Lark exchanged her shoes for her sturdiest pair and set out on the road to town, conscientiously closing the door behind her.

Arriving in town an hour later, Lark was panting slightly from traveling on a dusty road in the bright sun.  Skirting buildings and staying on the very outside edges, Lark found her way to the infrequently-used Justice Building, and decided to enter.  Since it had not been used in her memory, it would be as safe as anywhere to watch for her parents from.

The back door opened easily, and though the lower room smelt musty, it was no task for Lark to find a ladder to the small attic, which she climbed.  The attic let onto the open air on both sides, but was covered by wooden lattice to prevent people falling off.  Lark closed the trapdoor that she'd climbed through, then chose to lie by the side that faced the town square.  Surely her parents had to pass through there soon.

But it was cool, breezy, and shady there—despite the heat and dust of the square outside—and Lark soon fell fast asleep again.  When she woke, she felt absolutely famished, but she'd not woken because of that—but because there was a great clatter of horses' hooves on the stones of the town square outside.

The young girl crawled to the very edge of the attic, pushing her face to the lattice to watch the goings-on.  A fat, sweating man in heavy black robes had raced his horse right up to the steps on the side of the square opposite Lark's vantage point of the Justice Building, and now his horse, which was uncomfortable about the stairs, was refusing to go up.  Lark, when she'd had the idea of filling the cellar with harvest twice as fast by using packhorses, had found herself that no horses, not even the well-trained Daisy, liked stairs to go up _or_ down.

At some length, during which quite a crowd (for the village, at any rate) gathered around horse and man, the fat man dismounted, and climbed all seven of the steps himself.  The crowd followed up around him, and from Lark's viewpoint, it looked as though they were all loudly clamoring for his attention.

"Silence!" he thundered at last in a rolling baritone, then dabbed at his pink forehead with a black handkerchief.  "Back!" motioned the obese man with one pudgy hand, shooing the townsfolk down the steps.  Then he looked around, peering from piggy eyes almost hidden in round cheeks.  "Has my colleague the Worshipper yet arrived?" he asked the crowd, and of course half a score people answered—"Yes" or "Not yet" or "Over on t' other end o' town"—as best they knew.

One tall, thin man clutching a limp book walked forward, also clad in black.  His clothing was slightly loose from his skinniness, but in no way approached the billowing fabric of the other man.  "I represent the gods here," he announced mildly, then came forth and took a stand one step below the fat man.

The round man, still holding his horse's reins, asked the crowd, "Is there a likely young lad among you?"  The pre-teens shoved each other, giggling, until at last one proud father pushed his son, red as a beet and quite a bit younger than Lark, forward.

The pink fat man peered at the boy again.  "Know you of a place for my beast?" he asked, pushing the horse's reins into the boy's hand.

"Aye, sir," muttered the boy, casting his eyes down, "m' family has a likely stable.  Would y' that I put t' horse there?"

It was a lovely horse, Lark noted as the large man nodded, his rolls of fat set a-quiver.  It was in a lather from its heavy burden and quick gallop, but its lines were lovely and it seemed rather docile, and a pretty chestnut.  Probably a gelding, Lark decided—she couldn't see under its withers from above.  She knew horses fairly well from her family's mare, Daisy, and from the few other horses—a stallion and a few more mares—they had around their farm.

"Take it away," commanded the fat man, "give it a rub or mash or water or whatever it needs—uh, I personally don't know."

The boy, still looking down, embarrassed to have been volunteered in front of his friends, touched his cap and led the horse away to his family's stable, making a path through the excited crowd.

"Don't worry," called the obese man from the top step, "we'll try to save the entertainment until you get back!"  He then laughed long and loud; no other member of the watching crowd took part in the laughter, but shifted their weights nervously.

"I am the Justice of this region," proclaimed the man when finally sobered.  "I come to bring Justice and—uh—closure and healing to your community from this scar upon the town and land—short notice as there is."  Lark could _hear_ the man practically itching to ask about food and the inn's shelter for the night (he probably didn't realize the best the village could do was the floor of the local pub), but she realized that the Justice probably had to follow a ritual.

The tall, thin man a step below the Justice nodded in agreement.  "I am the gods' officially-recognized devotee of this region, known as the Worshipper.  I can vouch for the Justice, and I, too, am here to bring you closure and peace."  Suddenly he frowned.  "If, of course, it is the gods' will.  You understand that if they are angry that you have harbored this menace amongst yourselves, I may not be able to aid you."

Everyone in the crowd suddenly looked down and made the Sign on their breasts.  Even Lark, in the loft, did so, with some unavoidable rustling of her clothing.

"Bring forth the persons involved," announced the Justice loudly.  Suddenly Norlina, skirts fluttering and long nose twitching, flounced on the scene from the doors of the wooden building behind the steps.  She curtsied unnecessarily low, and put a sweet smile on her face as she pushed back her mousy hair.

"Your Justice-ship," she began in an odious, bootlicking tone, "if it please you—"

"It pleases me to be called merely by my title, which is Justice," the fat man interrupted curtly.  "Pray do so.  And my colleague need not be called the Most Reverend Worshipper-ship, either, but Worshipper will suffice."

The Worshipper did not look necessarily happy at the Justice's announcement.

"Your Justice," Norlina began again, after a pause.  "If it please you, I am Norlina.  The owner of the local general store, which if I may be so bold as to add, has all of your needs in one place, and should anyone need to purchase on credit, that, too, is—"

"You may not be so bold," interrupted the Justice, dabbing again at his forehead with the handkerchief as he looked for some shade.

Norlina paused again.  "The _widowed_ proprietoress of the most excellent general store, who's been without a husband these seven years, _and_—"

"Look you," snapped the sweating obese man, "state your relevance to the case—if any!"

Norlina's mouth pursed as though she'd bitten a sour grape.  "In _that_ case, I am the one who discovered the young miscreants yesterday—though Heavens above and Hells below know how long it's been going on!"

The Justice nodded.  "_Thank _you.  Now, please stand below the Worshipper."

Obviously surprised that she had nothing more to do at the moment, Norlina obeyed reluctantly.

_What is this about?_ Lark asked herself.  _What young miscreants—and what does 'miscreants' mean anyway?  Why did the Justice come here, and what case is he talking about?_  So full of questions was Lark that she missed the calling of the next witnesses.  By the time her eyes had re-focused on the scene unfolding below her, another woman and a man were standing next to Norlina.

Lark peered at the figures—could she see their faces?  The scene was not far away, and she'd made out Norlina instantly (distinctive though her overlong nose was).  Abruptly she recognized their figures through the concealing lattice: they were _her parents_, Matheu and Sena!

_Should I call out?  What is going on here?_ Lark asked herself silently.  _What under the Goddess could this be about?_

"Any more witnesses?" asked the Justice officiously, sniffing slightly and trying to find a handkerchief to mop his brow with.  Finally he settled on one sleeve.  The Worshipper tilted his face slightly upward, half-smiling in superiority: although _he_ was clad all in black, _he_ was not disgracing his position by acting like a common boor, even if he _was_ standing straight in the sunlight.

Their backs to Lark, two young women escorted an older woman from the crowd.  "What is _that_?" asked the Justice, staring, as the Worshipper made the Sign on his breast.

Both maidens looked around, wondering if he really meant _them_ to answer.  "The aunt of the captured one," replied one of the young women at some length.  "Named Eleika."

"What sort of name is _that_?" the Justice wondered aloud.  "But—why are you holding her?" was his next question.

"She's Goddess-touched," answered the other young woman, on Eleika's left, hesitantly.  "She was touched more than slightly even before all of this, but now she's entirely lost her wits."

"Ah," sighed the Worshipper in understanding, and "A sad case," remarked the Justice.

"What use, then, is she to us?" the Justice asked the young women.  "Can she still bear witness?"

"No," answered the woman, shaking her head, "but we thought it was important she appear anyway—she _is_, or was, the guardian of Sw—of the captured girl—?"

"Take her away," waved the Justice wearily.  "She can be of no use."

The two women turned, bearing the older one, whose face came into focus for Lark.  _Eleika—that's Sweetbee's old aunt!  But what—_

Lark swiftly reviewed the just-past conversation as the Justice beckoned to her parents to come forward.  _Wait a second, just a second.  This couldn't be about. . . ?_  Terrified, she began to breathe more quickly, until her heartbeat echoed in her ears and she was sure she could be heard in the square below.

_All right, all right, Lark, stop.  There's no way—look, take it logically, just one thing at a time.  First of all, they brought forth Sweetbee's aunt to testify, I'm _sure_ it was her.  Second, they said that she was the aunt of "the captured one."  Sweetbee was caught and captured when I ran away, and Eleika has no more nieces or nephews.  And that girl did begin to say a name that started with "Sw"—who's to say it's not Sweetbee?  Finally . . . my parents were called forward to speak about it, too.  They wouldn't be called in as experts in any field, because there must be a score of farmers exactly like Father and Mother within ten miles._

_So they were here to speak about me.  And Sweetbee's aunt was here to testify; probably about _her_.  And the only thing that involves me and her is what Norlina caught us doing yesterday.  Therefore . . ._

_Therefore, I am, and she is, in a _whole_ lot of trouble._


	3. Author’s Note—Why Am I Taking So Long?

            No, this isn't another chapter in the saga of _I've Never Told Anyone Before_.  This is a heartfelt apology and the reason that another chapter will take awhile to get written.

            Let me tell you a story.  I'm a teenager who's well-behaved (in real life, that is; online, I'm a shounen ai fanatic), and my parents are insanely protective (and biased as well).  Due to their protectiveness, they're sometimes a lot snoopier than they ought to be.  This isn't helped by the fact that our Internet browser keeps a comprehensive history complete with screenshots; also, I'm required by—well, by rule—to keep all of my computer disks next to the monitor.

            So one day I returned from Drama practice to find an outraged mother waving a website's ten-page-odd printout at me.  "_What the hell is this_?"  

I grabbed it and slowed the frantic movements down enough to read my shoujo ai disclaimer and then the opening sentences of _I've Never Told Anyone Before_.  As I later found out, she'd checked the browser's history and discovered it, knowing only that I'd visited that site, presumably to read the story.  I thought at the time she'd gone through my disks and found it.  

So what's the first thing I said?  "But, Mom, I don't write things like this _often_!"  
            All hell broke loose; she was absolutely _livid_.  Catching her precious daughter _reading_ such trash was bad enough; finding out she'd _written_ it was _far_ too much for Mom.

The "heated discussion" (remember, she had me cornered by the door) wound up with me racing into my room while she screamed up the stairs, "_You've revealed you're a lesbian!_"  (No, I'm _not—_I'm not even bi.)Mom also forbade me to read anything (since I obviously got sick ideas from it), write anything (since everything I wrote was obviously porn), or use the Internet (since I obviously only went to porn sites).

When I went to school next day, I angrily revealed all of the above to my four closest friends, Binc, Augmentia, Tafai, and Radiaki.  However, I changed the shou_jo_ ai to shou_nen_ ai, for four reasons: I _have_ written shounen ai, Mom _could have_ discovered it as easily, Mom would have been _equally_ irate, and finally because I _definitely _didn't want them to come to the same conclusion Mom had.  (Embarrassingly, they did have to have the meaning of _shounen ai_ revealed to them, since although they're all programmers and frequent Internet surfers, they didn't know that snippet of 'Net Japanese.)

But they came up with a wonderful idea.  I have a Palm (Vx, if you're curious) and so does Binc (M105).  Using their idea, I could write anything I wanted (namely, this, and other shounen/shoujo ai) on the Palm, then beam the file to Binc during school.  Once she was home, she would use her cradle to upload the file to her file-sharing program.  (I have a cradle and the same program, but it's too risky to leave any evidence on my home computer.)  She would then e-mail the HTML file to my Web-based e-mail account, hermionegranger@harrypotterrealm.zzn.com.  At school the next day, thanks to the media center's DSL connection and short staffing, I could grab the attachment from my e-mail account, save it to the C drive (hard drive), then quickly upload it here to FanFiction.Net—hopefully all of that before the librarians noticed I wasn't doing research.  I'd then delete it from the hard drive, and go on my merry way.

Confused?  So was I, the first time I heard their plan.  It doesn't really matter, except to note that that way _is_ how this piece was written/uploaded, and to inform you all that this is  a very timely maneuver (since I'm nearly always caught by the librarians before I can complete the job).

In short, it will be quite some time before the actual Chapter Three of _I've Never Told Anyone Before_ is written _or_ posted here.  But do not despair, _please_!  To amuse me—I mean, yourselves—you can e-mail me, or you can direct your friends here, or you can review this story more, or ::hint hint:: you can check out my _other_ stories on FanFiction.Net _and review them_, of which another is Tamora Pierce and another is shoujo ai.  (I can suit your every pleasure. . . .)

Hope to write more soon, and hope Mom un-grounds me from the Internet at home, reading, and writing soon!  (You wouldn't _believe_ how bored it's possible to get.  I've taken to art, which, despite Tafai's and Augmentia's hopes, is not my strong suit.  It's Lark/Rosethorn art, too—if anyone tells me a good hosting site, I can ::crosses fingers:: scan it at school, and upload it there so you can all see.  Anything else?  Oh yeah—long live anime!)

Sincerely and sorrily,

            Liana Goldenquill


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